Sunday, October 23, 2011


Autumn Grasses

by Margaret Gibson

In fields of bush clover and hay-scent grass
the autumn moon takes refuge
The cricket's song is gold

Zeshin's loneliness taught him this

Who is coming?
What will come to pass, and pass?

Neither bruise nor sweetness nor cool air
knows the way

And the moon?
Who among us does not wander, and flare
and bow to the ground?

Who does not savor, and stand open
if only in secret

taking heart in the ripening of the moon?


Jane said...

As I earlier wrote, I am usually not a great poem -lover, but you manage to find poems that somehow touch the right notes :-)

RH Carpenter said...

Jane, I find my short attention span revolting against any poem longer than a page :) And I do try to find ones that are full of work pictures :) Glad you enjoyed it.